Secret Star: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down

“I’m not going to faint.” She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, battling fiercely against the twin foes of dizziness and nausea.

“Could have fooled me.”

“I’m much too sophisticated for something as maudlin as a swoon.” But her voice broke, her shoulders sagged, and for a moment she kept her head down. “Oh, God, she’s dead. And all because she hated me.”

“What?”

“Doesn’t matter. She’s dead.” Bracing herself, she sat up again, let her head rest against the cold white wall. Her cheeks were just as colorless. “I have to call my aunt. Her mother. I have to tell her what happened.”

He gauged his woman, studying the face that was no less staggeringly lovely for being bone-white. “Give me the name. I’ll take care of it.”

“It’s Helen Wilson Fontaine. I’ll do it.”

He didn’t realize until her hand moved that he’d placed his own over it. He pulled back on every level, and rose. “I haven’t been able to reach Helen Fontaine or her husband. She’s in Europe.”

“I know where she is.” Grace shook back her hair, but didn’t try to stand. Not yet. “I can find her.” The thought of making that call, saying what had to be said, squeezed her throat. “Could I have some water, Lieutenant?”

His heels echoed on tile as he strode off. Then there was silence—a full, damning silence that whispered of what kind of business was done in such places. There were scents here that slid slyly under the potent odors of antiseptics and industrial cleaning solutions.

She was pitifully grateful when she heard his footsteps on the return journey.

She took the paper cup from him with both hands, drinking slowly, concentrating on the simple act of swallowing liquid.

“Why did she hate you?”

“What?”

“Your cousin. You said she hated you. Why?”

“Family trait,” she said briefly. She handed him back the empty cup as she rose. “I’d like to go now.”

He took her measure a second time. Her color had yet to return, her pupils were dilated, the electric-blue irises were glassy. He doubted she’d last another hour.

“I’ll take you back to Parris’s,” he decided. “You can get your things in the morning, come in to my office to make your statement.”

“I said I’d do it tonight.”

“And I say you’ll do it in the morning. You’re no good to me now.”

She tried a weak laugh. “Why, Lieutenant, I believe you’re the first man who’s ever said that to me. I’m crushed.”

“Don’t waste the routine on me.” He took her arm, led her to the outside doors. “You haven’t got the energy for it.”

He was exactly right. She pulled her arm free as they stepped back into the thick night air. “I don’t like you.”

“You don’t have to.” He opened the car door, waited. “Any more than I have to like you.”

She stepped to the door, and with it between them met his eyes. “But the difference is, if I had the energy—or the inclination—I could make you sit up and beg.”

She got in, sliding those long, silky legs in.

Not likely, Seth told himself as he shut the door with a snap. But he wasn’t entirely sure he believed it.

Chapter 3

She felt like a weakling, but she didn’t go home. she’d needed friends, not that empty house, with the shadow of a body drawn on the floor.

Jack had gone over, fetched her bags out of her car and brought them to her. For a day, at least, she was content to make do with that.

Since she was driving in to meet with Seth, Grace had made do carefully. She’d dressed in a summer suit she’d just picked up on the Shore. The little short skirt and waist-length jacket in buttercup yellow weren’t precisely professional—but she wasn’t aiming for professional. She’d taken the time to catch her waterfall of hair back in a complicated French braid and made up her face with the concentration and determination of a general plotting a decisive battle.

Meeting with Seth again felt like battle.

Her stomach was still raw from the call she’d made to her aunt, and the sickness that had overwhelmed her after it. She’d slept poorly, but she had slept, tucked into one of Cade’s guest rooms, secure that those who meant most to her were close by.

She would deal with the relatives later, she thought, easing her convertible into the lot at the station house. It would be hard, but she would deal with them. For now, she had to deal with herself. And Seth Buchanan.

If anyone had been watching as she stepped from her car and started across the lot, he would have seen a transformation. Subtly, gradually, her eyes went from weary to sultry. Her gait loosened, eased into a lazy, hip-swinging walk designed to cross a man’s eyes. Her mouth turned up slightly at the corners, into a secret, knowing female smile.

It wasn’t really a mask, but another part of her. Innate and habitual, it was an image she could draw on at will. She willed it now, flashing a slow under-the-lashes smile at the uniform who stepped to the door as she did. He flushed, moved back and nearly bobbled the door in his hurry to open it for her.

“Why, thank you, Officer.”

Heat rose up his neck, into his face, and made her smile widen. She was right on target. Seth Buchanan wouldn’t see a pale, trembling woman this morning. He’d see Grace Fontaine, just hitting her stride.

She sauntered up to the sergeant on duty at the desk, skimmed a fingertip along the edge. “Excuse me?”

“Yes, ma’am.” His Adam’s apple bobbed three times as he swallowed.

“I wonder if you could help me? I’m looking for a Lieutenant Buchanan. Are you in charge?” She skimmed her gaze over him. “You must be in charge, Commander.”

“Ah, yes. No. It’s sergeant.” He fumbled for the sign-in book, the passes. “I— He’s— You’ll find the lieutenant upstairs, detective division. To the left of the stairs.”

“Oh.” She took the pen he offered and signed her name boldly. “Thank you, Commander. I mean, Sergeant.”

She heard his little expulsion of breath as she turned, and felt his gaze on her legs as she climbed the stairs.

She found the detective division easily enough. One sweeping glance took in the front-to-front desks, some manned, some not. The cops were in shirtsleeves in an oppressive heat that was barely touched by what had to be a faulty air-conditioning unit. A lot of guns, she thought, a lot of half-eaten meals and empty cups of coffee. Phones shrilling.

She picked her mark—a man with a loosened tie, feet on the desk, a report of some kind in one hand and a Danish in the other. As she started through the crowded room, several conversations stopped. Someone whistled softly—it was like a sigh. The man at the desk swept his feet to the floor, swallowed Danish.

“Ma’am.”

About thirty, she judged, though his hairline was receding rapidly. He wiped his crumb-dusted fingers on his shirt, rolled his eyes slightly to the left, where one of his associates was grinning and pounding a fist to his heart.

“I hope you can help me.” She kept her eyes on his, and only his, until a muscle began to twitch in his jaw. “Detective?”

“Yeah, ah, Carter, Detective Carter. What can I do for you?”